Lord Blackwood's Final Request
by Pennigo
Summary: "Strange isn't it?" Her companion said absentmindedly as they passed row after row of unlocked and emptied jail cells. "Lord Blackwood's final request being for a lowly chambermaid?" Elizabeth did her best not to let her soft demeanour slip into a sour scowl. "I suppose it is, but Lord Blackwood has always been a mystery to those who knew him." Oneshot.


It was the early morn of Lord Blackwood's execution and never had the cells of the London jail been in such uproar. The sounds of rioting to greet the Chief Officer of Station House Four were unlike anything he'd heard in his thirty years of policing.

"What the hell's going on here, Charley?"

Constable Charles Clarke looked up at his chief, his lips thinned with worry and brow furrowed beneath his cap.

"Lord Blackwood's put him under some kind of spell, sir." The constable dutifully replied, gesturing a hand to the officer who spasmed in agony on the floor in front of Lord Blackwood's cell.

"It's like he's burning from the inside out!" Shouted the on-call Doctor, snatching his hand back from the writhing body as if burned himself.

"Shut up!" Snapped the chief, turning his attention back to Constable Clarke who stared, transfixed, as his colleague began to foam at the mouth.

"Charley." The chief called, "Charley!"

At the second mention of his name, the man seemed to snap out of his trance and turned to face his superior once more.

"Take this man to the infirmary! Now!" Barked the chief, who had since stepped around the commotion to plant himself firmly in front of Lord Blackwood's cell.

"What's this all about then, Blackwood?" The chief snarled, anger sparking in his eyes as he met the gaze of London's most recently captured, murderous mastermind.

With eyes cold and unblinking, Blackwood smiled.

"There's someone I want to see."

/

Twelve steps she'd counted since the heavy oak door of the prison had been shut at her back; twelve steps since she'd been introduced to her accompanying guard, a medium build, moustached man by the name of Constable Clarke.

The man did little to ease Elizabeth Barton's mind however, as her hands seemed to clench rhythmically within the folds of her skirt in time to what she could only hope to be the sound of water dripping from the ceiling of the damp, underground chamber.

Cut in a fashion that hadn't been popular for at least four years, the navy blue dress two sizes too big seemed to hang off her petite frame and wash all the colour from her already pale skin; highlighting the constellation like freckles splattered across her cheeks and deep purple bruises beneath her tired eyes.

"Strange isn't it?" Her companion said absentmindedly as they passed row after row of unlocked and emptied jail cells. "Lord Blackwood's final request being for a lowly chambermaid?"

Elizabeth did her best not to let her soft demeanour slip into a sour scowl.

"I suppose it is," she stated after a brief pause, "But Lord Blackwood has always been a mystery to those who knew him."

Drawing near to the end of the passage, their footsteps slowed as the corridor seemed to get colder the nearer to Blackwood's cell they traversed.

"I shall be fine to continue onto Lord Blackwood's cell unaccompanied if you'd like to turn back, sir." Elizabeth stated, turning her eyes to look up into the face of her concerned escort.

"Beggin' your pardon miss, but I feel that would be most unwise considering the circumstances. After what happened to all those poor women..." At this, his bushy brows furrowed and his dark eyes took on a distant, saddened look.

"I can assure you, I will be fine. He is behind locked bars, in London's most formidable jail, with Her Majesty's finest just a shout away." Elizabeth murmured to the man, placing a gloved hand gently upon his crossed arms before retracting it with a huff of determination.

"Besides," she continued, "I've known Lord Blackwood for over a decade and have seen him in more dangerous moods than you have."

At this, the right bushy brow of the Constable raised itself in disbelief.

"The man's a right old bastard without his morning tea." Elizabeth explained with a lilting smile upon seeing the man's disbelieving expression.

Recognizing the silent plea in her eyes, the copper resignedly took a step back.

"As you wish, Miss Barton. Though I'll be just a stones throw down this hall, so if you require assistance, just give us a shout."

Tipping his hat towards Elizabeth, the man's stoney expression broke to reveal the faintest glint of humour in his dark eyes. Turning back to walk towards the entrance with a whispered 'ma'am', Elizabeth was left alone in the dimly lit hall.

Facing the shadows without the strengthening presence of her escort, Elizabeth took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders before turning the slight corner and walking towards the cell belonging to her former master.

If she had expected the man to look relieved at her presence, she was sorely mistaken.

Lord Blackwood stood with his back to her, one hand held loftily at his side, a makeshift chisel loose in his grasp. Seemingly entranced with the crude carvings that decorated the inside of his cell, the sounds of her heels against the stone floor did nothing to break his concentration.

It was habit, she supposed coming to a halt outside of his prison cell, that ten years of work as a maid had her silent and waiting for instruction even now.

Several long seconds passed, the distant echoes of water droplets from neighbouring cells being the only sound before Blackwood's low voice abruptly disturbed the silence of the underground.

"I see you received my message."

He looked relaxed, in wholly unsettling contrast to his grim surroundings and the damning guilty verdict filed just days before. Turning to face her fully before sitting down on the lone cot, Blackwood tucked the chisel under the thin, yellowed mattress with a warm smile, his piercing eyes never leaving hers.

"I'm glad you decided to entertain my request."

The silence finally broken, Elizabeth found herself snapped out of a daze; at last able to give voice to the frustration and confusion that had plagued her these past three months.

"Five woman, Blackwood. Five!" Elizabeth whispered testily as she paced back and forth in front of the cell, her nervous hands finding a small tear in her glove before starting to pluck away at the loose strings there.

"Women my age, some younger! They were just girls — innocent, everyone of them!"

Stopping, she turned towards the shadowed figure of her former master, stepping close to the bars to grasp and peer through them with pleading, hazel eyes.

"How could you do such terrible things? Commit such senseless murders?"

Sitting straight backed on his threadbare cot, ankles crossed beneath finely tailored pants and hands folded meticulously in his lap, Lord Blackwood replied serenely, his voice low and calm as if explaining to a child.

"Their deaths were necessary, five small sacrifices that will bring about the dawning of a new era."

The grief and disbelief that had plagued her previous nights was gone, replaced solely with a wrath that burned like fire in her chest.

"Bastard." She hissed at him through clenched teeth and iron bars.

With movements so sudden that she didn't have time to unclasp her hands from their hold on the rails, Elizabeth found her small hands engulfed by larger ones and her face level with Blackwood's hot breath.

The small bones of her fingers creaked with the force of his suffocating grip and she had to bite her lip to avoid whimpering as Blackwood's blunt nails bit into the backs of her dainty gloved hands.

"Izzy," Henry hissed, his eyes, now as black as his namesake glittered in the darkness of the cell. "You have always known that I was destined for a greater purpose. Should the deaths of those young women be the means to an end and their role in a grander, more magnificent scheme, their sacrifices should be honoured and praised, not reviled and despised as the improvident, insipid, leaders of this mortal world seem to think."

Henry stopped, his eyes alight with dark, unsettling conviction.

"You and I are bound, Beth." At these words, his grip softened and his thumbs began to graze the backs of her hands.

"Not even death could stop me from returning to you." This last sentence was spoken in low, gravely tones, hardly more than a whisper of breath and yet it seemed deafening to Elizabeth who had long stopped hearing the pitter-patter of droplets descending from the damp ceiling.

As if pulled by some magnetic force ( _or magic_ \- chimed the voice at the back of Elizabeth's mind) their faces drew together, chins tilting to accommodate the graze of each others lips.

"Henry, I..." Elizabeth whispered with effort, feeling the sluggish lull that seemed to accommodate her every kiss with Blackwood.

And just as she began to let her eyes flutter shut, the dim lamplight outside the cell caught on a small cut at the corner of his mouth. In the beginning stages of scarring over, the deep red of dried blood was still visible beneath the healing skin.

 _Blood_ , her mind whispered.

Like a match struck, months of horrific headlines flashed behind her eyelids: pictures of women in white dresses on stone alters, their flesh torn and mutilated below the collar, bright red blood sluggishly moving as it dripped down the sides of the stone. The screams of terrified women echoed in her mind.

 _Blood_ , her mind repeated.

And she remembered everything.

She knew Henry noticed the moment she stiffened, her breath freezing in her lungs and fingers tensing under his caress. With a resigned sigh that ghosted across her cheekbones and caused the loose hair at her temple to flutter, Henry loosened his grip.

"I brought you your bible." Elizabeth muttered, carefully retracting her hands from under Lord Blackwood's larger ones, "I thought it might bring you comfort during your final... hours."

Drawing the black, leather bound King James from her clutch, she passed the book through the bars.

Feeling Henry's stare she refused to look up at him, her eyes focused instead on the hand that raised itself to softly graze the inside of her outstretched wrist.

Her pulse jumped and she visibly swallowed.

"Remember what I said." His voice was barely more than a whisper as he withdrew, taking the bible from her grasp.

With movements as quick as lightning, Elizabeth snatched back her hand and spun on her heel, the sharp clicks of shoes echoing as she made her way quickly back down the hall.

"This isn't the end, Beth." Lord Blackwood called out after her, his promise ringing out ominously in the empty, underground cells.

Forcing her chin high Elizabeth refused to turn around, pointedly ignoring Blackwood's cry and Constable Clarke's raised eyebrow as she returned to the heavy oak doors that had granted her access to the prison only fifteen minutes before.

Releasing her into London's aboveground bustle with one final tip of his cap, if Constable Clarke saw the glimmer of unshed tears in the dimming afternoon light, he said nothing.

/

Twelve chimes on the clock since the noose had been tightened around Henry's neck and the platform dropped from beneath his feet; twelve tolls that seemed to reverberate her skull and rattle the empty cage that used to conceal her heart.

Setting a teacup down on the polished mahogany table with a clink, Elizabeth desperately willed her hands not to shake as the grandfather clock continued to chime. Turning to stand beside the plush, high backed chair of her employer, she was relieved when her voice didn't tremble.

"Anything else I can get for you, Mr Rotheram?"

As if broken out of a trance, the hollow eyes of Sir Thomas Rotheram blinked once before turning from the cityscape to stare unseeingly in her direction. The raw pain she saw reflected in his eyes before he turned away to look back out the window was enough for Elizabeth to start in surprise.

Her heart panged in sympathy as involuntarily and against her better judgment, Elizabeth extended a trembling hand to rest softly on one of the old man's bowed shoulders. Turning again to look back at her, Lord Rotheram met the misty eyes of the chambermaid as Elizabeth finally found the breath to mutter the words that damned her.

"In spite of it all, I loved him too."

And so it was, that as the last chimes faded into an overcast sky and the crowded streets of London began to praise the news of Lord Blackwood's execution in earnest, Sir Thomas Rotheram raised wrinkled fingers to envelop the hand of the hired help.

* * *

 ** _A/N_** _There's definite potential for this to turn into a twoshot, but noticing a disturbing lack of Blackwood/OC content I decided to start slow. All pleasure, no profit. Massively AU, all praise and intellectual rights for anything canon go to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Warner Bros for letting me dabble in their world. Please leave a favourite if you enjoyed and a review if you feel so inclined. Happy reading! Penn'_


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